


The Old Lion

by FabulaRasa



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2010-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My one and only foray into RPF. Sean needs advice, and decides Ian is the one to give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Lion

‎"Break for fifteen, everyone!" Peter stalked away, his brow a single beetled ‎line. Crew skittered out of the way, and the little knot of cast plopped on ‎the ground, their limbs as sodden with exhaustion as their clothes with the ‎wet.‎

‎"God damn it to hell," Ian muttered. "If I can't get this the next time round, I ‎shall simply set fire to myself."‎

‎"I thought it was splendid," said Elijah softly, and Ian cast him an indulgent ‎smile. Everyone had a soft spot for Elijah, it seemed, even on days like this ‎one. Orlando stretched his long legs and rose as gracefully as Legolas, ‎brushing the leaves off his backside.‎

‎"Don't be so hard on yourself, Ian. You know, I had an idea. You could try it ‎another way, if you would just --"‎

‎"I beg your pardon?"‎

Heads swiveled; the voice, in its quiet courtesy, terrified. Danger, danger, ‎was the unmistakable signal. But Orlando, as cheerily oblivious to the threat ‎as to all else around him, blundered brightly on. "I was saying, if you're ‎having a spot of trouble there, I know a trick I learned in school that always ‎helped me. You can just--"‎

‎"Have you lost your mind?" The tone was still polite, and Viggo's stomach ‎clenched. _Shut up, Orlando_, he prayed, _just shut up and back away_. "Are ‎you completely and utterly deranged, you impudent, ignorant little Cockney ‎shit, that you are actually offering me acting advice?"‎

Ian's voice cracked and rose, and even Orlando dropped his eyes, alive at ‎last to his mistake. "Because that would be the living end to an absolutely ‎shitty day, it really would. So go on, then. I would adore to receive acting ‎tips from someone who was still shitting his pants when I was Macbeth." ‎The voice dropped to an air-sucking hiss that somehow carried further, so ‎that now not only the small circle of cast but the few crew scattered nearby ‎froze. Elijah's cheeks burned; Billy's eyes slid away. "Pray, do enlighten me. ‎Thrill me with your accumulated knowledge, oh living embodiment of ‎Strasberg, oh reincarnation of Aristotle come to dispense wisdom among us, ‎oh Richard fucking Burton in a leather tunic."‎

‎"I -- I just--" Orlando stuttered.‎

‎"You just what?" He roared, hurling his staff down, and the cast jumped as ‎it clattered off rock to skid at John's feet, who neatly sidestepped it to avoid ‎looking at the hemorrhage unfolding in front of him. "You just what? Tell ‎me, I am really dying to know. No?" He cocked his head beneath the ‎flowing grey white locks, eyes narrowed to slits, waiting. "I thought not." ‎He stalked forward a few steps, and bent to snatch his staff. He straightened ‎inches from Orlando's white and frozen face.‎

‎"No, I thought not. So perhaps, you impertinent puppy, you will think twice ‎before you dare that again, and take care to remember your place, which is, ‎properly speaking, with all the other three-shilling guttersnipe rent boys-‎turned-actors in Guildhall." He gave his wig a vigorous tug, which yanked it ‎off center, and turned on his heel in a swirl of grey wool. "Let's carry on, ‎God damn it!"‎

‎

* * *

Ian watched his face in the mirror as he swiped the make-up sponge ‎precisely down and across, mindful of the pull and wrinkle of his skin, ‎careful of his eyes. He tossed it on the pile with the rest. God damn it to ‎hell. He sighed and grabbed another sponge. God damn it, damn it, damn ‎it. He pushed Arthur's voice out of his head, the one that said Ian, what ‎have you gone and done now. What was that saying about pissing in your ‎own bed? Or was it shitting where you live? Something like that, and surely ‎that's what he had gone and done. He was going to have to put up with ‎these people for some time; making enemies of them all would be. . . he ‎reached for another platitude that eluded him. Closing his eyes, he pushed ‎down Arthur's face that threatened to frown at him from the corners of the ‎mirror, and saw instead the kicked-puppy face of the Bloom boy, his white ‎lips and downcast eyes. Oh, fucking hell.‎

It had been a shitty thing to do, no doubt about it.‎

‎"Hell," he said aloud, for the pleasure of it.‎

He had known, even as he was unleashing the day's frustration at the ‎hapless boy, that it was unjust, but it had been the absolute final straw. And ‎if he were to look at it clearly -- why, why would Arthur's voice not shut ‎up? If he were to look at it straight on, it had been more than the day's ‎anger that had spilled out of him. It had seemed like such a capital idea at ‎the time, taking this job -- halfway round the world, no one he knew, no ‎one who knew. . . no one who knew. When he had stepped off the plane ‎and taken his first breath, he had known he had been right. It was like no ‎place he had ever been before, and that was just what he wanted -- a place ‎erased of memories, a place empty of those treacherous invisible wires that ‎were strung all round his world, those wires of memory he kept tripping ‎over wherever he walked, wherever he went, hobbling him, strangling him. ‎Yes, this had been the place all right.‎

Here, it was easier to ignore his sister's letters. Easier to leave the cell off for ‎days on end, easier to quickly forward through the answering machine, ‎hitting "delete" at the first sympathetic voice. Lots of things were easier, ‎except, apparently, for the things that weren't, like. . . like breathing, a ‎mutinous voice supplied, and he buried his face in his hands and braced ‎against the familiar wave, digging in and letting it wash over him, scrub ‎him.‎

God damn it to hell. He lifted his head and began on his face again, pulling ‎too hard, heedless of his skin. What did it matter now anyway? He was old, ‎and what was the point in preserving his skin's elasticity when half of it had ‎fallen down his neck anyway?‎  
‎"I grow old, I grow old. . ." he recited, and stopped. "I shall wear. . . I shall ‎wear. . ." Why couldn't he remember anything any more?‎  
Twenty years ago -- less, perhaps -- it wouldn't have been another man that ‎young Bloom boy's eyes followed around the set. No, indeed. Not that he ‎had ever been handsome in the classical sense, of course he had known ‎that, but he had been compelling, yes that was the word, and he had known ‎how to use it, and while the pretty young things might have been ‎impressed with who he was, they had been pretty damn impressed with ‎him in black leather pants as well. And he had known the power of his ‎eyes, oh yes. To enthrall, to seduce, to command. _Like I was the only one in ‎the goddamn room, and you were so drunk you probably thought I was, ‎you sot_. No. No. He shut his eyes against the voice.‎

Lucky guess, is all it was. A surmise born of experience. He hadn't actually ‎known the boy had whored around, but it was a safe enough guess, given ‎his shocking prettiness. Who wouldn't be tempted to turn that to practical ‎use, if only a little? Starving was no joke, and you did what you had to. Not ‎that he himself had ever had to, but then there had been family money in ‎his case, and something in the way the boy was overly careful of his vowels ‎told him there had been no money there. That pitch-perfect accent was ‎acquired, he had no doubt of it, and that had been another wound for him ‎to flick. Guttersnipe. Well.‎

‎"I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled," he announced, pleased to ‎have thought of it at last. And something about a peach. And mermaids. ‎Eating peaches? That didn't seem right. He had no head for poetry. Unless ‎he was starring in it, of course.‎

He gave up on his face and flicked the last sponge aside. No help for it but ‎to go apologise. He would be gracious, and kind, and turn the full power of ‎his eyes on the Bloom boy, and all would be forgotten, or become an ‎amusing post-production anecdote. Bloom. Hmph. Blum it had doubtless ‎been, not so many generations ago, and that would account for some of the ‎extraordinary exoticism of those features. Stop, you dirty old man, the voice ‎said, and this time he smiled. Oh yes, he could probably get all that ‎loveliness in bed with him still, but only because he was Sir Ian Fucking ‎McKellen, and he could imagine the boy saying to himself, don't be an idiot, ‎he can help you, he can get you places. Twenty years ago, that would only ‎have been half the equation. Well, he thought with a grim chuckle, maybe ‎more than half, but still.‎

He pushed himself up and lurched out the door of the little trailer.‎

‎

* * *

  
‎  
‎"All right then, how 'bout this one --"‎

‎"No, no, Drop the Dime!"‎

‎"Death Ring!"‎

‎"Beergammon!"‎

‎"Beercheesi!"‎

Seven heads turned. "Beercheesi?" Orlando said, laughing. "What sort of ‎stupid Yank shit is that?"‎

Elijah laughed. "It's not stupid at all, it's a brilliant drinking game, you just--"‎

‎"What sort of Yank says 'brilliant'?" Billy cocked an eloquent brow.‎

‎"The sort who's stuck on an island with 178 mad Englishmen, that's who. ‎Jesus, even my vocabulary's corrupted."‎

‎"Well, Lije, if it was corrupting you wanted," said Liv, propping her feet on ‎Orlando's lap, who began aimlessly rubbing them.‎

‎"Seven months hasn't taught him the difference between an Englishman ‎and a Scot?" Billy asked the ceiling.‎

‎"Sure it has," Dominic grinned. "He was just too polite to mention it. Plus, ‎Englishmen use toilet paper."‎

‎"Oh, you're dead, Monaghan." Billy grabbed his head and began knuckling ‎the spiky stubble on top of it.‎

‎"Oi! Leave off there! Aren't you afraid you'll make your sheep jealous?"‎

They tipped over in a tumbling, laughing heap onto Ian's feet, who shifted ‎aside in distaste. Having to show that he, too, could be one of the lads was ‎giving him a positive headache, but when the Bloom boy -- evidently moved ‎to pieces by his apology -- had invited him, he had thought it the politic ‎thing to accept. Castly camaraderie, however, was all well and good, but ‎this was a bit much. "Honestly, you two. Must you always behave like such ‎juveniles?"‎

‎"Hey, old men over there!" Ignoring him, Orlando called over to the corner, ‎where Viggo and Sean sat tied in their own quiet knot of conversation. ‎‎"D'you have any ideas?"‎

They flicked their eyes up in apparent annoyance. "For what?" Sean asked, ‎leaning in to light his cigarette off Viggo's.‎

‎"For a drinking game, of course. Aren't you paying attention?"‎

Viggo shrugged. "What about a good old-fashioned bout of Never?"‎

There was a moment of silence to consider, as Billy and Dominic picked ‎themselves up off the floor. Viggo had hardly spoken all evening, doing his ‎best Aragorn impersonation, brooding in the corner and chain smoking. ‎Most Fridays, he would hardly shut up. The company was inclined to throw ‎him a bone.‎

‎"Sure," said Orlando, starting on Liv's other foot. "'Never' it is. Though it's ‎not fair to Elijah -- he'll hardly get to drink at all."‎

‎"Hey!"‎

‎"Ah, shut your hole," said Dominic good-naturedly.‎

‎"I'm going first!"‎

‎"No, no, I have to -- I've got a great one!"‎

‎"Are any of you overgrown or actual adolescents going to bother to explain ‎the rules of this game?" Ian took another swallow of his beer, pulling a face ‎at it. "Dear God, it's piss in a bottle. It's not like any of you are actually poor-‎‎- is this really the best you can do?"‎

‎"It really is great you could join us tonight, Ian. We're all so glad you're ‎here."‎

‎"Oh, do shut up, Boyd. Explain the rules."‎

‎"Sure Ian, since you ask so nicely," Dominic said. "One person says ‎something he--"‎

‎"Hey!"‎

‎"Or she," he continued, with a nod to Liv, "has never actually done, and ‎then all the people who have done that particular thing have to drink. For ‎instance, I might start the game like this: I've never pitched a nutter and ‎made a complete arse of myself on set. And then, of course, you would have ‎to drink, and the rest of us would not."‎

‎"Ah," said Ian thoughtfully. "I think I have it now. So I could begin thus: I've ‎never pretended to be completely straight in order to be best mates with a ‎man who couldn't be less interested in me sexually."‎

The room was heavy with breaths not taken. Dominic's face went white, ‎then red, and he tossed the deck of cards he had been fiddling with into the ‎centre of the table, pushing back his chair. "Fuck you," he muttered, and ‎stalked off to the kitchen.‎

‎"Well," said Sean judiciously, stubbing out his cigarette. "I think that closes ‎the evening's nominations for Shittiest Remark Ever."‎

He picked up his beer and headed off to the kitchen as well, leaving Elijah ‎staring furiously at his hands and Billy, whose face was thin-lipped and ‎elsewhere. Liv untucked her feet from Orlando's lap, ignoring his little ‎pluckings at her, and padded off to the bathroom. Viggo, looking interested ‎in the evening's proceedings for the first time, lit another cigarette and ‎leaned forward to Ian.‎  
‎"You know," he said earnestly. "I think I am really beginning to dislike you."‎

Ian sighed and swallowed down the piss-swill beer. "Well, that's just ‎because you don't know me. I'm sure you'll come to thoroughly detest me, ‎given time." He set his bottle down carefully and picked his jacket off the ‎back of his chair. "I know a good exit cue when I see one. Good night, my ‎dears. Do try not to drink yourselves into absolute oblivion -- I have to work ‎with some of you, come Monday, and I don't feel like having to endure ‎thirty-nine takes because you're busy puking in the undergrowth."‎

The trailer door banged shut behind him. Orlando studied his beer. "Well," ‎he said at last. "Least it wasn't me."‎

‎

* * *

‎"Let me see if I have this," Ian said from behind the partition where the dirty ‎laundry was stashed. "You want advice? From me?" He emerged, wiping his ‎hands on a cloth he tossed onto the counter. "And where on earth are ‎Carolyn and Regina? Did they just decide to skive off early, do you ‎suppose?"‎

Sean spun in the make-up chair and -- the involuntary reflex of the actor -- ‎considered himself in the mirror. His Boromir stubble was itching like mad, ‎and he scratched at it. "It's quarter till nine, you irascible old bastard. They ‎went home, along with everyone else, and by the way, they're here to do ‎your make-up, not your underwear. And yes, I want advice." He reached ‎into the duffel at his feet. "Look, I even brought a bribe." He pulled out two ‎bottles of beer and proffered one to Ian, who studied it dubiously.‎

‎"What on earth is it?"‎

‎"It's beer."‎

‎"What sort?"‎

Sean shrugged. "Dunno. Some Danish stuff Viggo fancies. Thought it might ‎be good. Better than hobbit swill, any road."‎

‎"In other words, you nicked it." Ian sat heavily in the opposite chair and ‎gave his face an absent wipe with the towel around his neck.‎

‎"Look, let me ask you a question." Sean shifted and rummaged in the duffel ‎for a bottle opener. "Have you ever been involved with a woman?"‎

‎"It's a good thing I'm not actually drinking this beer, or I would have choked ‎on it. What on earth do you mean, asking a question like that? Aren't you ‎being a bit personal?"‎

‎"Of course I am, you daft. . . look. I'm asking you for advice. Is that so ‎beyond the pale?"‎

‎"What sort of advice, I suppose I ought to have asked?"‎

‎"Advice of. . . a personal nature."‎

‎"Bean. If you think I am any source of advice on affaires du coeur with a ‎woman, then the reason for your three divorces is abundantly clear."‎

‎"Oh, for. . . look," he said again. "For this to work, you're going to have to ‎stop being you for about five minutes. Can. . . can we do that, do you think? ‎Can you just unearth a measure, some shred of humanity, and just. . . just ‎give me some bloody advice? Be a mate for once, can't you?"‎

Ian studied the beer bottle again. "Yes," he said quietly. "I think I can. I'll try ‎to remember how, at any rate. You might have to guide me along the ‎rougher patches."‎

Sean sat back with the bottle opener, but made no move to open his beer. ‎He stared at it, revolving the garishly painted bottle and squinting at the ‎label. "Right. Well. My point -- my hypothetical point was, that if you were ‎to embark on a relationship with a woman, if such a thing were possible, ‎and assuming you had never done so before -- assuming, that is, that it ‎were entirely new territory for you, uncharted waters, as it were--"‎

‎"Bean. Arrive at the point."‎

‎"Right. In such a case, wouldn't you want some advice on how to go about ‎it?"‎

Ian tilted his head skeptically. "From you? Hypothetically speaking, of ‎course, if I were looking to get a job, I wouldn't ask advice from the person ‎who'd been sacked from it. Three times." He held up a hand. "Right, right. I ‎am to transcend my usual irascibility. I get it. And I think -- no thanks to ‎your circumlocution -- that I also get what you are driving at." He set the ‎unopened beer on the counter next to the brushes and frowned. "This place ‎is an absolute sty. I realise we are all cramped for space, but surely Peter ‎could have thought up better trailer-mates for me than those two-- oh, fine," ‎he sighed, waving off Sean's scowl.‎

‎"All out of your system now?"‎

‎"Possibly. If we keep digging, I'm sure we'll run into my extra reserves of ‎geniality and bonhomie. Somewhere. Now, let me see if I understand what ‎you're on about." He sat back and ran his hands through stiff wig-crushed ‎hair, cutting his eyes at the other man. "You want advice on how to become ‎gay."‎

Sean's laugh spluttered out of him. "Dear God, no. I just want to know ‎about the rules."‎

‎"I'm not following. The rules?"‎

‎"Yeah, the. . .you know." He made a vague hand gesture, which Ian ‎frowned at. Sean sighed and tried again. "What I mean is. . . how is it ‎different?"‎

‎"Ah." Ian leaned back. "I see. You want to know the politics of homosexual ‎relationships, in the time it takes to finish a beer."‎

‎"That's right."‎

Ian examined his hands. He felt suddenly tired. "It's a bit late for that, don't ‎you think?"‎

‎"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"‎

‎"I just mean, it's going on nine, and I have to be back here at six tomorrow, ‎and I'm in need of a hot bath, and a cold drink, and a warm bed, and this ‎may be a longer conversation than I really have time for tonight."‎

‎"Oh. Right. Right, I'm sorry." Nimbly, he was out of the chair. "I didn't ‎think. An older man like yourself, of course you're going to need more rest ‎than some of us."‎

‎"Oh, fuck off, Bean. Sit your arse down." Sean obeyed, not bothering to ‎mask his smirk. "Now. Twenty-five words or less, right?"‎

‎"That's it."‎

‎"First you're going to tell me why."‎

‎"Why what?"‎

‎"Why are you asking me this?"‎

‎"Because you're the only gay bloke I know, that's why."‎

‎"Bean. In the twenty odd years you've been working in the theatre, you ‎haven't ventured out of your dressing room much, have you?"‎

‎"I meant, you're the only gay bloke I know here, you git. And possibly. . . ‎the only gay bloke I've been around for an extended period of time. And ‎whose opinion I might-- well, be interested in."‎

‎"My God."‎

‎"What?"‎

‎"You're a homophobe."‎

‎"What? Sweet Christ, I am not! That's the most ridiculous thing-- look, trust ‎me, whatever else I am, it's not that, all right?"‎

‎"Then why this little anthropology expedition? Why are you asking me ‎about gay culture?"‎

‎"I'm not-- Jesus, I'm not asking you about gay culture." He scrubbed his ‎hands over his face. 'Gay culture' filled him with vague unplaceable terror, ‎and made him think of disco balls and horrid music and frightening sex toys ‎with scented lube. People edging away from you at the pub. "I just-- my ‎questions are of a personal nature."‎

‎"This is the most incredibly circular conversation I've ever had. Bean, for the ‎love of God, why in the world are you--"‎

‎"Shut up! Just shut up, all right!" In the silence, Sean rested his face in his ‎hands. Ian watched him, not displeased. "Look." Sean cleared his throat. ‎‎"Look. I need to know how not to fuck up, all right?"‎

Ian allowed a little smile to curve his lips. "There. That wasn't so hard, was ‎it?"‎

Sean examined the ceiling. "You're a right bastard, you know that?"‎

‎"So I've been told. Now. Let me ask you a question. Ever done this before?"‎

‎"You mean--"‎

‎"Yes, I mean. Have you?"‎

Sean shook his head. "Not as such."‎

‎"You're going to have to be more specific than that, I'm afraid."‎

‎"All right. Fine. I've never done this before, have no fucking clue what I'm ‎doing, and am terrified I'm going to fuck up in some catastrophic and ‎unforeseen way. Satisfied?"‎

‎"Marginally. So you want to know the ways a homosexual relationship ‎differs from a heterosexual one, I take it. I really am a very poor one to ‎consult on that, not being in the least bisexual, you know. My basis of ‎comparison is entirely from the other side of the fence."‎

Sean shrugged. "Fair enough. You supply the information, I'll make the ‎comparison myself. See," he said, swiveling his chair gently back and forth, ‎his brow furrowing, "I know right enough how to get on with mates. And I ‎know how to get on with lovers, too. It's just where the two converge, see, ‎that's giving me a spot of trouble."‎

‎"All right," Ian offered. "I think I see. But let me ask you another question. ‎In all your involvement with women, did none of those relationships begin ‎with friendship? I mean, the particular situation you're in now -- whatever it ‎may be -- must have some similarities in that respect, yes?"‎

‎"Well," he shifted uncomfortably. "Not really. I've never been very good at ‎the friendship thing, with women. I mean, with them, there've always been ‎other things on the agenda, so to speak."‎

‎"Really," Ian said, frowning at him as though he had belched, or spilled ‎something nasty. "Hmm. Well, did it never occur to you that may be part of ‎the problem? In your relationships with women, I mean?"‎

Sean laughed. "Well, now it does. But this-- this is something new ‎altogether. The things I feel. . . I mean, I haven't. . . it's not really ever. . . ‎been quite like this for me, y'know?"‎

Ian leaned forward and took the bottle opener out of Sean's twiddling ‎fingers. "I think I will have that beer now, after all." He popped his bottle, ‎then Sean's, and leaned back, taking a meditative swig. "And yes, for the ‎record, I do know."‎

‎"It's not that I'm particularly gay."‎

‎"Are you by any chance defending your masculinity?"‎

Sean laughed. "Dunno. Maybe so. Feel free to leap into the breach with me ‎here."‎

Ian chuckled. "Right beside you. Half a league, half a league, into the valley ‎of death."‎

They drank for a moment in a silence that threatened to become ‎companionable. "So," Ian said at last. "I'm afraid there are no easy answers ‎to your question."‎

‎"Yeah. I was beginning to suspect that."‎

‎"The best I can tell you is, everyone has to work those things out the best ‎they can for themselves. And as for the differences. . . which answer do you ‎want?"‎

‎"The true one."‎

‎"They're both true, as far as I can tell."‎

Sean groaned. "Christ. All right, go."‎

‎"As for the differences, they are tremendous. All the rules are different, and ‎you have to feel them out as you go along."‎

‎"And the other answer?"‎

‎"The other answer is, there are no differences. Not where they matter."‎

Sean digested this in silence. "So you're saying, all the things I hate -- all the ‎things I'm awful at, like honesty, and talking about one's feelings and shite ‎like that -- none of that changes?"‎

‎"I'm afraid not, no."‎

‎"Christ on a crutch."‎

‎"Of course, it depends what level you're playing at. Am I right in thinking ‎you've tossed your chips in at the highest ante?"‎

‎"You might say that, yeah."‎

‎"And are you playing to win?"‎

There was silence, and Sean looked at this hands. "Yeah," he said softly.‎

Ian finished off his beer, which was, as it turned out, excellent. He carefully ‎set the bottle down and cocked his head at his reflection in the overlarge ‎mirror. "Then God help you."‎

He heard Sean's quiet laugh, and the clink of his bottle on the counter. Sean ‎rose and clapped a hand on his shoulder. He flicked his eyes to it in the ‎mirror and made a studied effort not to flinch away. Odd, how he loathed ‎being touched these days. After so many years as a cat, leaning into every ‎stray touch, Arthur used to say. Still a cat, but an old one, with injuries, and ‎inclined to spit. He winced at the sorry analogy. Sean was looking at him in ‎the mirror.‎

‎"You all right?"‎

‎"Hmm? Yes, sorry. Drifted away there."‎

‎"Yeah. Well. Thanks. I really-- I appreciate it. What you said. Thanks."‎

‎"Don't mention it."‎

Sean grinned. "No worries there. Wouldn't want it to get around that you're ‎actually decent, would we?" He let the tinny screen door of the trailer bang ‎behind him, and Ian heard the gravel crunch under the still-booted feet as ‎he made his way to the car park opposite the other trailer. The night had ‎gone dark and thick, and he was probably the last one left. He turned back ‎to the mirror.‎

‎"God help you," he said, just for the sound of it.‎  
‎ ‎  


* * *

At first, he thought no one was home, but he always thought that. Viggo ‎had a habit of gliding noiselessly from room to room, and then he would ‎surprise you, lurking somewhere. Once he'd found him sitting in the ‎shower, smoking, fully clothed, taps off. It was, admittedly, a nice shower -- ‎tiled bench for sitting, lovely view off the bluff. But still. Not average ‎behaviour. "I couldn't find an ashtray," he'd said, as though that explained ‎it.‎

The whole house was as nice as the shower -- or would have been, if it ‎weren't so bare. He padded in and laid the flowers on the kitchen counter.‎

‎"Vig?"‎

‎"Yeah. Right here." A mussed head poked around the pantry door. "Just ‎fixing dinner. You hungry?"‎

‎"Famished," he said, rummaging for a beer in the sleek refrigerator. "Are ‎you out of those good ones? The whatzits?"‎

‎"The Refsvindinge? 'Spect so, at the rate you've been stealing them. There's ‎some Miller in the door. You took your time."‎

‎"Stopped to have a word with Ian. And I brought you something." He ‎gestured at the counter.‎

‎"What the hell are those?"‎

‎"Flowers. What did you think they were?"‎

‎"Honestly? I couldn't tell." He picked up the shrink-wrapped bouquet ‎dubiously. "Sean. You don't have to bring me flowers, for Christ's sake."‎

He shrugged diffidently. "Thought it might be nice."‎

Viggo looked from the sad bluish flowers to Sean and back again. "You don't ‎need to woo me, you know. But if you did, I would recommend doing it ‎with something that has actually been in the ground at some point in its ‎sorry existence. These have about as much chlorophyll as that beer there. ‎But you know. . ." he held the bouquet of dyed carnations up and cocked ‎his head at it. "I might be able to do something with the leaves. They're ‎great in salads. Here," he said, tossing it at Sean. "Pluck those and put them ‎in a bowl. Pasta will be ready in ten minutes, and I've got some foccaccia in ‎the oven. There are some more greens in the fridge -- why don't you rinse ‎those and throw them in, too. I can whip us up some dressing."‎

Sean winced and set to work. Viggo's idea of what was edible and his did ‎not often converge, but he would be the first to admit that Viggo got results. ‎He'd eaten better in the last few months than he ever had. And slept better, ‎and felt better. And had better sex. Good God, had he had better sex.‎

As if reading his thoughts, a pair of warm hands slipped round his hips ‎from behind. "You're making a mess," a voice husked near his ear. "You're ‎supposed to leave out the stems." The hands kept on slipping around, right ‎to his front.‎

‎"Christ, Vig."‎

‎"Mm. Missed you. You made me wait."‎

‎"Aren't you supposed to -- oh -- withhold sex for that sort of thing? Oh, ‎Christ." The hands were rubbing in slow circular motions now, and one had ‎moved around back to cup his arse. Nothing, no one had ever made him ‎come undone the way Viggo did. It had made him angry at first, baffled and ‎resentful. It wasn't like he was gay. "It's not like you're not, either," Viggo ‎had replied.‎

‎"So, Ian," the voice at his ear was saying.‎

‎"Hmm? Oh. . . oh. Yeah. He was just. . . I was just. . . being polite, y'know? ‎He--" he lost whatever tenuous thread of thought he had been pursuing as ‎the hand began squeezing rhythmically. He let his head tip back against ‎Viggo's forehead and began to sink into it.

"Mm. That's. . . oh yeah."‎

His head came up with a jerk. Not this time, damnit.‎

‎"Sean? What--"‎

He turned and pushed, hard. He had Viggo against the slick steel of the ‎refrigerator before he knew what had hit him, and his tongue in Viggo's ‎mouth even as it opened to protest. He kissed him hard, and he felt Viggo ‎relax into the kiss, felt his own kiss becoming rougher, more possessive. No. ‎He stopped abruptly and frowned at Viggo.‎

‎"Sean? You okay, man?"‎

‎No. No, that wasn't quite right, either.

‎"Sean?"‎

‎"Hang on." And he dove in again, but froze a millimetre away from lip ‎contact. He slowed and brought his lips to Viggo's as softly, as chastely, as. . ‎‎. well, as nothing, really, because he couldn't remember a time in his life ‎when he had kissed like this, kissed just to feel, kissed without any ‎immediate objective. Every time he felt his body ratcheting it up, demanding ‎more, he slowed it down, and every time he wanted to crash his lips into ‎Viggo's, he gentled it. And at last, at last, just when he knew he couldn't ‎take it another minute, he felt something give in Viggo like a plucked string, ‎and the kiss deepened in some indefinable way, Viggo's hands trembling on ‎either side of his face.‎

‎"Sean."‎

‎"Yeah." They were nose to nose, just nudging now, just breathing.‎

‎"Tell me about this chat with Ian."‎

He smiled against the stubbled face, stroking his hands over and ‎underneath the soft T-shirt Viggo wore. "It was nothing. It was good. He ‎helped me out. Taught me the rules and stuff."‎

Viggo's head reared back and made a small clunking noise against the ‎fridge. "Rules?"‎

‎"Well. . . yeah. Of this. Us. You know."‎

‎"No, I really don't. Sean. There are no rules."‎

‎"Aren't there?" He began a slow descent down the expanse of warm neck. ‎How was it Viggo was always warm?‎

‎"I suspect. . ." He felt Viggo swallow. Good. He was liking it, then. For too ‎many weeks it had been just wild fucking, and too much of that fucking had ‎been about Sean, and about fast and hard and rough. He would show him ‎he could be slow, too. He wanted Viggo to come undone that way he did, ‎wanted. . . "I suspect Ian was having you on."‎

He smiled into Viggo's throat at the unconscious Briticism of a man ‎marooned far from home. "Mmm. Maybe." He brought his head up and met ‎Viggo's eyes. From this close, they didn't look blue at all. They looked ‎flecked with light, aqueous. "Wouldn't surprise me, the rum bastard. But I ‎think I want something a little different tonight, anyway." And he reached ‎and brushed a stray shag out of Viggo's face. "You'd better trim this, or it'll ‎never fit under that bloody wig."‎

‎"I thought you liked it hard. Fast."‎

He shrugged, tightening his grip on the warm body, moving their hips a ‎little closer together.‎

‎"I thought you liked it that way so you wouldn't have to think about what ‎you were doing."‎

That sobered him. Entered him like a knife, in that way Viggo's voice had of ‎slipping up on you, oozing quietly into you. "You thought. . . so I wouldn't ‎have to think about what I'm doing? Jesus, Vig. Is that. . . is that what you ‎thought?"‎

The eyes were steady on him. "Am I wrong?"‎

He blinked. Once, twice. Jesus fuck. "Yeah, Vig, you're wrong. Or I mean, ‎maybe you're not. Maybe you were right, but that's the point. You were ‎right. Not are. I want to think about it. I am thinking about it." He grinned. ‎‎"I think."‎

Viggo nodded slowly, weighing. "So. Carnations."‎

Sean ducked his head and laughed. "Yeah. Well. That was plan B."‎

Viggo did not answer the smile, just cocked his head in that curious ‎assessing way he had. "And what was plan A?"‎

‎"Plan A. Plan A was, get you upstairs and make such slow love to you that ‎your throat goes hoarse from screaming my name."‎

‎"How?"‎

‎"How what?"‎

‎"Tell me how you will do this."‎

‎"Ah." His throat was the one gone dry of a sudden. "Well. I figure we could. ‎‎. . we could start by our taking our clothes off."‎

Now Viggo was the one grinning, shaking his head. "Sean, man. You better ‎hold back with that dirty talk of yours, or I might just come in my jeans. I ‎might just come right here up against the fridge. That tongue of yours is a ‎deadly weapon, man."‎

Sean gave him a playful shove back into the fridge. "Watch it, Yank. Don't ‎make me get rough."‎

Now Viggo was laughing that peculiar silent laugh of his, unable to stop. ‎‎"Oh yes, yes, yes," he breathed. "Do me, baby. Don't stop. I'm out of control. ‎Ooh yeah."‎

‎"Shut up, fuckwit!"‎

Viggo slid down, still leaning against the fridge, still laughing. "That's it, ‎baby. Drive me wild. I don't know how you could ever have been worried -- ‎I mean, talk like that? And carnations, too? Shit. I'm a sure thing." He ‎convulsed in laughter, his eyes closed with the sheer enjoyment of it, and ‎Sean gave way, collapsing beside him.‎

‎"You are one weird bloke, that's for sure. Of all the blokes I could have ‎ended up fucking. That's one sense of humour the universe has got there."‎

‎"Yeah. Well. I'd have to agree with you there." They rested a minute, ‎catching their breath. After a bit Viggo staggered up, holding out his hand ‎to Sean. "Come on."‎

‎"Where're we going?"‎

‎"Upstairs." He hauled him up, taking time to grab two beers out of the ‎fridge's inconspicuous lower drawer, where Sean would never bother to ‎look.‎

‎"Thought you said you were out of the Reffin-whosit."‎

‎"Yeah, I lied. You're drinking me out of house and home, Bean." He was on ‎his way up the stairs, the bottles clinking gently together. "Are you coming ‎or what?" He paused on the landing, looking down.‎

‎"What about supper?"‎

Viggo rolled his eyes. "I ate earlier anyway. Come on."‎

‎"I didn't eat."‎

‎"Then next time, don't be late. Get your ass up here."‎

Sean hesitated.‎

‎"What's the matter?"‎

‎"It's just. . ." He looked at Viggo perched above him, the dim light from the ‎upstairs hall an aureole around him, flaming the gentle muss of his hair, the ‎fingers curled around the beer bottles, the bemused smile on his face. It ‎almost choked him, the beauty of it. Of him.‎

‎"It's just. . . this is a really beautiful house, y' know?"‎

Viggo didn't do anything other than nod gravely. "Yes," he said at last. "I do ‎know." He studied Sean's eyes. "It's incredibly beautiful."‎

‎"Seems a shame it's only a rental."‎

Viggo did not respond.‎

‎"I mean, that you'll have to give it back. When the shoot's over, that is."‎

‎"I'm okay with it. The bathroom faucet leaks."‎

‎"Oh. Well then." He rose heavily up the stairs, feeling the day's shoot in his ‎joints. Viggo was waiting on the landing.‎

‎"I've been thinking of buying it," he said.‎

‎"Have you?"‎

‎"Mm hm. I figure. . ." he looked off into the middle distance over Sean's ‎shoulder, then brought his gaze to bear back on him. "I figure, maybe I'll get ‎a plumber." He leaned in and stroked a thumb over Sean's cheek -- a swipe ‎down and across, wet from the perspiring beer. "Come to bed."‎  
‎ ‎


End file.
